Shadow Rider (10 page)

The vibe around them got a little scary, as if his anger was so oppressive it could weigh down the entire room.

“Was it random? A stranger?”

Like Cencio?
he was asking. She shook her head before she could stop herself. How had she allowed such personal information to slip out? They'd been having a good conversation, and just like that she'd ruined the mood. Stefano was intense. His anger was intense. He'd gone from being sweet and easygoing to vulnerable and then dangerous in the space of a couple of minutes.

“I'm sorry I spoiled the mood,” she said, trying to backpedal. “You were relaxing and I just . . .” She broke off when his fingers went to her neck, massaging the knots there, in an effort to ease the tension out of her.

“You didn't kill the mood, Francesca. You were trying to help me and I appreciate it. Very few people would have even seen that I'm still carrying that load around with me. I appreciate you sharing.”

His voice was very low. Intimate. His eyes met hers and her stomach did another somersault. He was just plain beautiful.

“Signore Ferraro,” a voice called from across the room.

She saw impatience cross his face, but it was swiftly masked. When Stefano turned to see the woman standing in the doorway, a good distance from them, he did so with
a smile. The woman looked every day of eighty. She was short and a little bent, her skin thin and her face still beautiful in spite of the few wrinkles proclaiming she'd lived her life. She wore a long black dress and matching shawl and she wrung her hands together as she hurried through the restaurant toward them, weaving her way through the tables and ignoring Berta, who tried to stop her.

Stefano raised his hand to Berta and she skidded to a halt and then went back to her station. Stefano rose as the older woman made it to them. He towered over her, settling his arm around her shoulders with a gentleness that took Francesca's breath. No one would ever guess that he was the least bit impatient with the interruption. To Francesca's dismay the woman had tears in her eyes and her lips trembled.

“Signora Vitale, you're upset. Please sit for a moment and join us. Have a glass of wine.” There was nothing but solicitation in Stefano's voice.

He held up his wineglass toward Berta, who clearly had been watching along with everyone else in the restaurant. She hurried toward them and placed another wineglass on the table as Stefano helped the older woman into the seat across from Francesca.

“Signora Vitale, may I present Francesca Capello? Francesca, this is Theresa Vitale, a dear friend of mine.”

Francesca loved how gentle his hands were when they touched the older woman, pushing the glass of wine into her hand and keeping contact with her. More, his voice was soft with affection. She murmured a greeting, knowing the woman barely registered her presence. Signora Vitale's entire attention was centered on Stefano.

“Drink that and then tell me what has upset you.”

Theresa took the wine in shaking hands and obediently took a sip. Francesca couldn't imagine anyone disobeying Stefano, not even a woman of Theresa's age. He might be gentle, but there was no mistaking that he was the absolute authority.

“Perhaps I should leave, give you privacy,” Francesca ventured.

Stefano's fingers slid around her wrist, shackling her to him. “No. Stay. Please.”

Her heart fluttered at the soft
please
. He had issued a command to her, but then he'd added that one little word that changed everything. She nodded, and he relaxed his hold on her. Instead of shackling her, the pad of his thumb brushed intimately along her inner wrist.

For the first time, Theresa looked at Francesca, dropped her gaze to Stefano's fingers around her wrist and then her eyes went wide as she looked at his face. “I'm interrupting something important.” A fresh flood of tears came and she rocked herself back and forth.

“Francesca doesn't mind any more than I do, Theresa,” he said gently, using her given name. “Do you,
bambina
?” he asked, his eyes on hers.

“Of course not,” she immediately replied. “Please don't be distressed.”

Theresa drank her wine and placed the empty glass directly in front of Stefano. Still keeping his hold on Francesca, he obliged Theresa by pouring her more.

“It's my grandson, Bruno,” Theresa confessed, her voice very low. “He's in trouble again.”

Stefano sighed and sank back against the booth, his thigh brushing Francesca's. He brought her hand to his mouth, nibbling on her fingertips absently, as if he had forgotten it was an actual flesh-and-blood hand. The feel of his mouth on her skin was even more intimate than when his thumb had brushed her inner wrist. The ache in her breasts increased and her body responded with more damp heat. His eyes were hooded, impossible to read, but Francesca had the feeling he was exasperated with the conversation, not at all aware of the explosive chemistry she was feeling.

“What kind of trouble this time?”

Theresa took another gulp of wine, looked left and right and then lowered her voice. “Drugs,” she whispered. “I think he's selling them for someone and I think the police are watching him. He can't get arrested again. He just can't.”

Stefano didn't move. He didn't speak. Around them, the air got heavier. Darker. Francesca felt the scary vibe he gave off. She knew immediately that Theresa's grandson was in far more trouble with Stefano than he would have been with the police. Theresa didn't seem to notice, but the rest of the people in the room did. Heads turned and conversation grew muted.

“What do you want me to do, Theresa?” he asked, the tone pitched very low. His voice was devoid of all feeling. His face was set in hard, implacable lines. Expressionless.

Francesca gently tried to pull her hand away, mostly because she was so aware of him, she couldn't think straight. His fingers tightened around hers and he bit down with his strong white perfect teeth. The little bite of pain sent a streak of fire straight to her sex. He pulled the finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around the bite, soothing the sting.

She froze. He wasn't looking at her. She wasn't even certain he knew she was there. His entire focus seemed to be on the older woman.

“You have to talk to him, Stefano. You have to talk to him,” Theresa repeated. “If he gets caught, he'll go to prison this time. He's a good boy. He needed a father. My daughter, she was no good. You know that. Always the drugs with her. She just left him, and then my beautiful Alberto died and there is only me. I pray, but God is not listening to me. You have to, Stefano.”

Francesca stopped trying to pull her hand away. Her heart hurt for Stefano. Everyone expected him to take care of their problems. It was clear this wasn't the first time Theresa had come to Stefano and Francesca was certain it wouldn't be the last. He carried a terrible weight on his shoulders.

“Bruno is twenty-four years old, Theresa. No one can stop him from doing what he wants. I've talked to him.”

Theresa took a deep breath. “You haven't made yourself clear.”

There was a long silence. The air was suddenly charged with tension. Most of that was coming from Stefano, but Theresa looked both scared and nervous.

“Are you certain you know what you're asking me, Theresa?” Stefano's voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. Gentle. Still, it was somehow very menacing.

The old lady nodded. “He has to know there are consequences. It is the only way. Nothing has worked.”

“There is no taking it back.”

“I understand.”

Francesca didn't. She was missing something big. Huge. Whatever Signora Vitale was asking for, Stefano was reluctant to do. She moved closer to him, wanting to comfort him. She didn't understand why, especially since his scary persona was back. As he sat there in his pin-striped suit with his expressionless mask and flat, cold eyes, she could understand why she'd first thought he was in the mafia. No Hollywood movie would ever find a better man to play the part.

Theresa held his eyes for a long time. Stefano lowered his long lashes as if weary beyond measure and then he lifted them. “
Bambina
, I'm sorry.” He leaned into Francesca and brushed a kiss over her forehead. At the same time, still holding her hand, he slid his index finger out and drew a soothing line along the scratch at her throat. “I had planned to walk you home, make certain you were safe, but I'm going to have to take care of this.”

“That's all right. I can get home by myself.” Francesca could see the reluctance to leave her in his eyes. He really didn't want to go and that made some small part of her very satisfied, even though the bigger part of her knew she was being a little delusional in thinking his concern could be anything but fear for her safety.

He shook his head as he lifted his hand to Berta and she came running. “Put this on my tab,” he said to the woman. He left two twenty-dollar bills on the table as he rose, a huge tip, and held out his hand to assist Theresa Vitale in rising. “My cousins will be waiting outside for you, Francesca. Please allow them to see you home.”

She smiled at him. “It's unnecessary.”

“I disagree.”

His tone told her not to argue. His eyes and the hard look on his face told her the same. He was a scary man to defy, but she might have argued just on principle if she hadn't seen him so vulnerable over his friend's death. If she hadn't figured out that he needed to protect everyone around him.

“All right then,” she conceded, not sounding very gracious. She'd enjoyed their talk together far more than she'd expected and she liked him much better than she had thought possible. Maybe too much. She'd certainly told him too much about herself. She was especially grateful that when she'd made that mistake, he hadn't pried further. “Oh no. Stefano, your coat.”

He shrugged. “Did you get yourself a coat?”

She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. He wouldn't like that. He'd specifically told her to buy a coat. It was just that all the ones in the neighborhood were expensive. She wasn't going to use his money for a coat. “I'm saving for one.”

“Francesca.” There was warning in his voice. “Look at me.”

“Go. You have things to do.”

His fingers caught her chin and tipped her face up to his. “Nothing is more important to me. Get. A.
Fucking
. Coat.”

It was difficult to look into his eyes and not give him anything he wanted, even when he swore the way he did. “Stefano.”

“Francesca.”

He actually growled her name. She didn't think a person could make that particular sound, but he managed it. Everyone in the restaurant stared at them. Waiting. Horrified at her defiance. She knew they couldn't possibly hear the exchange, but they could read body language and see that Stefano Ferraro was not happy with her.

He sighed. “Wear my coat home and be warm. I'll come by later this evening and see you.”

Her heart plunged. He couldn't possibly come to her apartment building. The place would fall down if he walked into it. She didn't live in Ferraro territory. Joanna had explained the boundaries to her, and her apartment building
definitely fell outside of it. Surely he didn't mean he would come to her apartment?

“Give me your cell. I'll put my numbers in.”

This time her heart started pounding. She didn't have a cell, and she knew instinctively he wouldn't like that, either. It must have showed on his face because he swore savagely in Italian.

“Really? Damn it, Francesca. Do you know the first fucking thing about self-preservation?” His blue gaze glittered dangerously with pure menace.

Her stomach tightened. He was scary. Plain scary. Anger radiated off of him in waves. There he was. The man she'd first met. The man capable of just about anything—excepthis anger was over her safety and she understood him better.

“Some things have to be a priority, Stefano,” she said in a low voice, determined not to match his anger because she was embarrassed over her circumstances. “Like food and shelter. Even if I could save the money for a cell phone, I'd have to have a monthly plan. That costs money. I'm just getting on my feet.”

She tried to sound matter-of-fact. She didn't want him to think for one moment that she was complaining. For the first time in a long while she had hope. She had a job where she earned better money than she had thought she would. She liked the job and the neighborhood. She had a roof over her head. She didn't want him to feel responsible for her. She was responsible for herself.

He took a deep breath and, to her shock, nodded his understanding. His fingers left her chin. “I'll catch up with you later.” Abruptly he turned and, slipping his hand under Theresa's elbow, led her out.

Francesca sank back down into the seat. She was exhausted. Totally. Going up against Stefano Ferraro was a bit like going up against a force of nature. She felt a little battered and bruised and yet he'd been very gentle when he touched her.

She picked up her wineglass and took another sip. It was
excellent wine. She couldn't remember if she'd told him so. She hadn't remembered to thank him for the meal—and it was a fantastic meal. If her stomach hadn't shrunk so much she would have eaten far more. As it was, she was taking the rest of the pizza home with her. No way was she wasting it.

“Hey, girl!” Joanna slid into her booth. “Wow. Can I just say
wow
?”

“Where did you come from?” Francesca asked. She looked past her friend but she was alone.

“Eating with Stefano Ferraro? You didn't tell me you had a date.”

“It wasn't a date. He wanted to talk to me.”

“About?” Joanna prompted, and helped herself to a slice of the pizza. “Was this his glass? Because I'm totally drinking out of it. If you know where his lips touched, just point out the spot and I'm all about setting my lips right over his. He's that hot.”